


by mistake or design

by sirenofodysseus



Series: Mirror Universe [1]
Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Gen, Good is Bad Bad is Good, I Love This Universe Okay!?, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Mirror Universe, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: Jane's a serial killer by the name of Red Jane.(or here's the story of how he managed to bring Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt along for the ride.)
Relationships: Grace Van Pelt/Wayne Rigsby
Series: Mirror Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032588
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	by mistake or design

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this earlier in the year, but took it down due to not really being positive on what I was going to do with it. 
> 
> Now, I know I want a series. So, here's the first in the series. :)

When Thomas McAllister slanders Patrick Jane on national television, the infamous police consultant is dressed in a set of white suspenders that make Jane want to gouge his own damned eyes out. The small studio audience laps up lie-after-lie as the overly cheerful hosts inquire about an entity, they know absolutely nothing about. Studying his television set in the den, sitting in a lone leather armchair with a cup of tea balanced precariously on his knee, the moronic Thomas McAllister is brimming of smiles and utter bullshit.

Instead of losing his temper, he finishes his cup of tea and leans forward to chuckle in amusement. He’s never been called _sad_ or _pathetic_ before; _maybe_ , he thinks, _I should feel slighted_ , but he knows the moron’s words are based out of fiction and not fact. Jane almost writes the man off as a small town hick with a desire for fifteen minutes of fame, until Thomas looks straight into the camera and announces with a flourish, “If you’d like additional information on the heinous killer, Red Jane, you can read more in my upcoming book, out tomorrow: _Shades of Blood: a Californian Nightmare_.”

Jane’s blood curdles, before his teacup is in sharp shards of glass on the hardwood floor. He grabs the television remote and re-watches the segment, until all the words and smiles begin to blur together. He’s never been one for pointless bloodshed, but Thomas’s shameless self-promotion makes him reconsider his stance. The word _villain_ reverberates around in his skull, until he decides with a callous smirk, that if a villain is what Thomas wants—a villain is what Thomas will get.

Without too much forethought or planning, he decides to carve Thomas’s lovely little daughter and his vibrant vixen of a wife into strips of thin, bloody ribbons against stark white bedding; their screams so beautiful, he almost regrets not recording them for future use. Using his middle finger and pointer finger, he paints his signature on the wall across from the bedroom door in blood and sweat: a gleaming, bleeding smiley face, before he shuts the bedroom door and affixes a note to the lacquer-coated door.

_Dear mister McAllister…_

Recalling the memory over a third cup of tea, Jane realizes he might have been a _little_ too impulsive. Considering Thomas’s colorful personality and slight sarcastic streak, Jane thought the moron would have come through mostly unscathed; but the police consultant/author had taken his own life, twenty-six hours after. Local news reports claimed he’d hung himself from the balcony of his Malibu home, using his white suspenders as a noose.

Tea momentarily forgotten; Jane taps his fingers against the blood-stained tabletop. How could he have been so damned impulsive? His vendetta against Thomas could have ruined everything he’d worked so hard to build. Glancing upwards, he realizes there’s only one way to ensure it’ll never happen again.

Sighing, he pulls out his flip phone and dials a number.

::::

His decision to meet with Teresa Lisbon in the seedy, Sacramento underbelly, makes him question his sanity. Though her name has been tossed around for weeks as a solution to his impulsiveness issue, he still feels as though everyone’s lost their minds once he sees her; because based off first impression, Teresa Lisbon isn’t everything he’s looking for. She’s a train wreck in plain sight and not the equal, he so desperately wants.

In a tattered navy-blue sweater that practically dwarfs her entire petite frame, Lisbon is almost half-an-hour late without explanation or apology. Seeing her with matted hair and skin covered in filth, he almost has an aneurism at what others thought to be useful. The brunette before him looks as though one stiff breeze will do her in, and he’s not about to take on that mess too.

When she finally opens her mouth, after a few minutes of uneasy silence, she demands he hands her a cigarette with a Midwest accent and her ridiculous demand has him scowling.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you respect and manners, Mr. Jane?”

He lifts his eyebrows at her snark. “My apologies, Miss Lisbon. My courteous behavior must have slipped my mind.” He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk, as he adds, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to take a shower? If you’re low on soap, I’m sure I can find you some…”

Lisbon scowls. “Just what makes you so damned special?” He says nothing and in turn, she closes the small gap between them. She smells of decay, dirt, and earth. “Just because you wear that ungodly getup here,” she motions to his light gray three-piece suit, “doesn’t mean you don’t fuckin’ bleed like the rest of us do.”

And then, without warning and from inside her left shoe, she draws a blade.

He laughs in disbelief. “You wouldn’t do anything with that.” Jane lifts the palm of his hand to press against the tip of her blade, ignoring the small bead of blood forming. “We both know, you don’t have the…”

“Do you consider yourself a lucky man, Mr. Jane?” Lisbon questions, meeting his gaze and he realizes, from the lack of empathy in her green eyes—she has nothing to lose, especially if she leaves him for dead. “Because, personally, I want to slit your throat and watch you drown in your own blood. But if you consider yourself lucky, please go ahead and keep trying me. I assure you that you will regret it.” She jabs the tip of her blade into his palm, which forces him to take a step backwards as his palm bleeds. “So again,” she spits at him, “what makes you so damned special?”

He considers lying to her, but something about her tells him she’s okay.

“I’m going to change the world.”

Jane watches her reaction carefully as she blinks before she throws her head backwards and she laughs so much, until there are tears shimmering out of the corner of her eyes. “You? What in the hell are you going to do? Charm the world with your lack of wit?”

“Wit is the lowest form of sarcasm.”

Lisbon rolls her eyes, wiping away her tears. “Mr. Jane, you’re an idiot.” Her reaction doesn’t exactly surprise him, as he probably would have said the same thing to her—if their positions had been reversed.

But he still asks her, “why?” anyway.

Her gaze meets his again. “Must I spell it out for you?”

“Come on and humor me.”

She grimaces as she tucks her blade away. “The world is shit.” He hears her exhale nosily. “I also find the idea of you,” she points her finger in his direction, “doing anything but dying today to be oddly bizarre. However, what do I know?”

He decides to take a chance with her. “I wager you know quite a bit.” She scowls and he throws his hands upwards. “You don’t seem like the type to pull a weapon on just anyone, regardless of how badass you seem.”

Lisbon says nothing for a moment, until she tilts her head slightly to stare at him, only to counter with, “and you don’t seem like the type to get your hands dirty.”

He chuckles and pulls out his own knife, still stained with the blood of the McAllister family. “We both know appearances can be deceiving then.” He waits for her response, prepares for another round of her snark, but her questioning expression makes him think he’s said something that clicks in her head. Staring at Lisbon, Jane’s reminded of a skittish animal—if you get too close, you’re dead. If you make friends with it, however, you’ll be set for life.

Oddly enough, he now wants to work with her. He wants to know what makes her tick and what makes her fall apart.

“I’m not a good person,” she tells him, after a few more moments of silence.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her with a devious smile of his own, “I’m not in need of a good person anyway.”

::::

They all have their backstories.

His, for example, involves a broken family; a conniving father with a penance for rawhide leather, and a cowardly mother, who left them before he took his first steps. It’s not something he’ll ever tell another living soul, but like the thick jagged scars that trail his inner and outer thighs—he knows it’s something he’ll carry with him always.

He and Lisbon don’t talk about their before; he doesn’t tell her that he grew up as a cheap gimmick in a traveling carnival. Or that his father was a dick. What he does tell her, however, is that he likes knives, likes inflicting pain onto others, and that he’s killed more than the eight individuals under his pseudonym Red Jane.

She tells him she doesn’t like guns.

“They’re too impersonable and traceable,” she explains, but what she’s not saying is that when she was fifteen, she killed her father with one of his guns.

“It’s why I only use knives,” he replies, but what he’s not saying is that when he was eighteen, he stabbed his father twenty times.

He’s done his research on her, as he would have been stupid not to do so. Jane knows she comes from Chicago; knows she hails from a broken home too. He also knows, the Chicago Police Department have stopped looking for Lisbon Senior’s murderer. Someone, the department profiler, had labeled as deranged, disturbed, and angry. 

“You’re not deranged,” he tells her later, as they’re both sitting outside in the mid-summer air, scouring for victims at a local park. That’s one of the things he loves about Sacramento; the people are complacent and often forgetful of their surroundings, which makes them all perfect targets. “You’re misunderstood.”

“Even the misunderstood can be deranged, Jane.” He nudges her leg with his at her use of his last name. He’s tried getting her to call him Patrick, but apparently, she’s determined to keep with Jane.

“I wonder what that says about me then.” They smile briefly at one another, before they return to people watching. They sit for a little longer, silence stretching comfortably between them both, until her leg brushes against his and he follows her line of sight. His mouth remains shut as he eyes the blonde female, who sits on the bench across from them. The blonde glances up at him and he waves hello.

She doesn’t return the greeting.

::::

After five gruesome kills together, all meticulously executed, Lisbon approaches him with the oddest suggestion: she wants to add a third to their activities. Standing in the doorway to his study in short-shorts and a blood-red top, Lisbon looks both determined and mesmerizing. He doesn’t say anything to her immediately though, as she’s caught him completely off guard.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have friends in both low and high places,” she explains without apology for her interruption. When he doesn’t say anything, she continues, “I know you’re a lone wolf, Jane, but just consider it? Alright?”

And so, he does.

He considers it before he falls asleep and as they’re enjoying meals together. He considers it in the shower and while he’s pleasuring himself at night, until he’s analyzed her suggestion from every angle possible. Jane knows her idea ultimately holds merit, but with merit comes much risk. He might be impulsive, but he’s certainly not stupid.

Lisbon’s idea could very well get them killed.

Or worse, caught.

Over breakfast a week later, as they’re pouring over newspaper headlines for any mention of Red Jane, he approaches the topic with her. “Teresa, should we really be playing with what works for us?” She glances up from the _Sacramento Gazette_ and the look of annoyance she shoots him makes him laugh. He’d swore he’d never get too attached, but she’s the perfect counter to his more impulsive tendencies and the idea of adding another to their duo unnerves him in ways he can’t describe.

“It might be great today, Jane,” she argues, “but what about tomorrow? Or next week? Or our next murder?” She pauses to cross her arms against her chest. “You keep telling me you want to change the world. Two people and a blade aren’t going to do that alone.”

He smiles weakly. “You count as three.”

She rolls her eyes. “Funny, but you know I’m right here.”

Still glancing at her, he knows she is.

They might be untouchable now, but that’s certainly not going to last them forever.

So, with great reluctance, he agrees to meet with Kimball Cho.

::::

Whereas Jane’s the master of words and manipulation, Kimball Cho’s the complete opposite; he’s an excavator of the human body with the ability, according to Lisbon, to turn anything he touches into a weapon. The Avon Park Playboy is tattooed from shoulder-to-shoulder and Jane’s smart enough not to ask him what any of them mean.

“What’s he doing here?” Cho asks Lisbon, his tone void of any emotion, as the three are standing in the common area of the gang’s sanctuary. “I agreed to meet with you. Not him.” Jane doesn’t speak or defend himself, as he continues to eye the man wearily. Cho doesn’t scare him, but he’s still got one hand on a switchblade inside his pocket, just in case. Lisbon had told him they’d be alright, but her words do nothing to ease him. He knows exactly what gangbangers, like Cho, are capable of.

Lisbon, however, remains unconcerned. “As I seem to recall, Kimball, you owe me quite a few favors.”

“It’s Iceman now, Lisbon,” Cho corrects flatly, and Lisbon raises both of her eyebrows, snorting.

“What’d you do to get that godawful moniker? Give someone a lobotomy with an ice pick?” Cho’s eyes shift to him, cautiously, which means he probably _did_ give someone a lobotomy with an ice pick. “He’s not a cop, I assure you.”

Cho continues to eye him. “Looks like a cop to me.” Lisbon chuckles lowly, which has him rolling his eyes. She’d advised him against wearing his three-piece suit to their meeting, but as usual, he’d ignored her. What was he supposed to wear, after all? A wife-beater, like Cho? The idea of wearing something _so_ basic had him cringing.

“Definitely not a cop.” Cho doesn’t blink and his continued stare tells him that the gangbanger doesn’t quite believe him; something Jane can’t fault him for, considering the kinds of individuals who join gangs and then, turn on one another.

“Cho,” Lisbon replies, after a few minutes of tense silence. Her tone, like Cho’s stare, is unwavering. “He’s one of us.”

Jane doesn’t ask her what she means. It’s just not important, really. But Cho’s response is to stare coldly in-between them both, giving Jane another explanation as to why he’s called Iceman. As he’s waiting for Cho’s response, Jane can’t help but ponder the relationship between Lisbon and Cho. Had their first meeting been like Lisbon’s and his? Full of distrust and knife-pulling? Or had their comradery spun from something far greater than his need to change the world? Like a basic need for survival.

He considers asking Lisbon about it later, but he knows he’s better off leaving it alone. Not all mysteries need solving, anyway.

::::

Cho’s the first one to insult his modus operandi as Red Jane, because the stoic thinks it’s going to get them all arrested and then lethally injected. Kitchen knives and smiley faces drawn of blood on white walls are nice, Cho points out after Lisbon’s detailed their masterplan, but eventually—someone, somewhere will piece together their methodologies and then what?

Jane, of course, has thought of everything and tells Cho as such. “I thought it was obvious.” From beneath the dining room table, he pulls out his kitchen knife. “We kill everyone.”

“We’re _what_?” Lisbon asks at the same time Cho asks,

“You’re going to kill an entire police department?” The question is asked in that deadpanned tone of voice that Jane’s come to tolerate. Even if the tone still serves as a secondary reminder that the man still considers him an idiot, regardless of the good plans he has had. “There’s a word for that.”

Jane drops his knife to the table with a clatter and picks up his teacup. “Why are we worrying about this anyway?” Cho eyes him. “Sac PD has nothing to transfer, aside from two pages of notes and a scattering of inane theories.”

Next to him, Lisbon shifts so suddenly he almost spills his tea over Cho. Jane doesn’t need to glance in her direction to know she’s fretting, so he glances downwards toward the _Sacramento Gazette_ instead.

**CALIFORNIA BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION TO TAKE CONTROL OF RED JANE CASE**

Beneath the bold front-page headline, there’s a color portrait of the Serious Crimes Unit Senior Agent. Agent Lorelei Martins is quite attractive, Jane acknowledges with a hum, but he’d still rather see her body in tatters on the floor than in the papers, alive.

“This should change how you operate, Jane.” Cho’s voice interrupts his macabre imagination of Martins’ long intestines strung from ceiling beam to ceiling beam within the CBI. “You act as though you’re still playing with the minor league, instead of with the major league now.”

“You played baseball as a teenager, didn’t you?” Jane asks and Cho ignores his question, which forces him to add, “you’re an interesting—”

“I will hurt you,” Cho interrupts sternly. “Make it look like an accident too if you finish that sentence.” Jane closes his mouth as Lisbon shakes her head, probably annoyed with him—as usual. “Play against the CBI and you’ll be caught.”

Jane pauses to tap his finger against the portrait of Martins. Perhaps, Cho has a valid point, but the CBI is just as hapless as Sacramento P.D. was. Between Supervisory Agent-in-Charge Thomas Volker who enjoys the limelight more than the safety of his employees and the crackpot team of agents Martins has, Jane thinks it’ll take a miracle for them to find their own asses—let alone he, Lisbon and Cho.

Lisbon keeps him from voicing his opinion though by jabbing her elbow into him. He throws her a glare, but her point is loud-and-clear: don’t go making enemies here.

“What do you suggest we do then, Cho?”

The gangbanger stares at her for a moment before he leans backwards in his chair and crosses his arms. The most movement Jane’s ever seen from him, honestly. “He doesn’t want to change his ways, fine. It’ll be both of your funerals.”

“Cho…” Lisbon warns.

“An ace in the hole will solve all of your problems, Lisbon,” Cho interrupts. Jane blinks twice at the man’s inane suggestion. It’s not that corrupt cops don’t exist, but they just aren’t exactly a dime a dozen; and for what Cho’s alluding to, they’ll need a corrupt cop with an unfettered amount of power.

“Yeah,” Jane scoffs with the roll of his eyes. “I’ll just go down to _Corrupt-R-US_ and…” Lisbon elbows him again and he points his knife at her. “Stop that, woman!”

Cho doesn’t look too impressed. “You two done flirting?”

Jane sputters almost immediately. Flirting? He and Lisbon? The fuck? “W-what?”

Lisbon pays him no attention. “You got someone for us?”

“I’m good at keeping my nose to the pavement, Lisbon, not infiltrating authority.”

Still shell-shocked from his comment, Jane doesn’t make a noise at Cho’s statement. However, the thought of Kimball Cho in a pressed white dress shirt and a striped tie, whilst seated behind a desk at the CBI, is beyond ridiculous to imagine. In another life, perhaps, he supposes, but certainly not in this one.

“Again,” Lisbon repeats. “You got someone in mind?”

“I do.”

::::

Jane’s always been great at reading others.

His father had always told him it was a precious gift and he’d believed the man, up until his father had taken him out to the middle of the Nevada desert. _All father’s do this with their little boys, Paddy_ had been said, before his father had straddled him. Jane had been eight years old; the night sky dotted with twinkling stars, the dry air thick against his bare skin, and his father’s penis in his mouth.

That night, he’d realized the so-called precious gift wasn’t so precious, after all.

But as an adult, it was useful in pinpointing liars. As an eight-year-old boy whose father was a monster, however, it made every touch, caress, whispered word, and unwanted finger feel as though he’d been poisoned from the inside-out.

That’s why he doesn’t tell Lisbon why he knows CBI Senior Agent Wayne Rigsby of Narcotics is lying to them. He just tells her the how.

“You expect me to believe it’s because of his word choice?” Lisbon asks and Jane nods, which causes her to huff. They’re sitting across from one another at a diner, close to the bureau; he’s got a plate of rubbery scrambled eggs and a cup of tea. She’s got a soggy salad and a cup of coffee. “How much of an idiot do you take me for?”

Jane only smiles. “You know, as well as I, that there’s something off about him.”

“Aside from the fact he has horse tranquilizers without, you know, actually owning a horse?” She stabs at her salad with a fork and he can’t help but laugh at her observation. Cho’s relationship with Rigsby, according to the gangbanger, had been complicated at best. For years, the Senior Agent had attempted to arrest the Avon Park Playboys on a slew of narcotic charges; all of which, had failed, ultimately due to the legitimacies with the warrants.

And then suddenly (and without explanation), Rigsby had demanded a meeting with Cho; the narcotics agent would give the Avon Park Playboys a heads up on all upcoming raids, in exchange for a flowing supply of illegal substances. Wisely, Cho had taken the deal.

“He could own a horse,” Jane teases her and from beneath the table, Lisbon kicks out at him. She’s so violent. “Wayne seems…”

“…like a sweet, but bumbling imbecile?” Lisbon interrupts and Jane laughs again. “The type of guy who would buy into some crackpot conspiracy, not hunting.”

“Agreed.” In their meeting with the man, he’d denied involvement with anything surrounding the Avon Park Playboys or anything underhanded. Rigsby had told them he was a good person with good intentions, which Jane had only partially believed. “Could you imagine him hunting?”

“People or horses?”

Jane shakes his head. “Hopefully neither. He’d probably kill himself in the process.” Lisbon drinks from her cup of coffee and Jane pushes his eggs aside. He knows Wayne Rigsby’s type, because men like him are a dime a dozen; ultimately good-hearted smucks, who find themselves lost somewhere along the way. “Can’t say he’s exactly graceful either.” The man had nearly tripped over himself when Lisbon had asked about Cho, which had made Jane even more suspicious.

“So, what do you think he’s hiding?”

“What makes you think he’s hiding anything?”

“Your word choice.”

Lisbon smirks.

::::

It’s not difficult for him to find the skeletons in the closet of others, but the companies of Lisbon and Cho make it far easier.

He’s never been good at quietly breaking-and-entering places into which he doesn’t belong. His first attempt, after Lisbon had agreed to join him, had her muttering _we’re gonna get caught_ almost every five seconds. He’d glanced at her in annoyance and had muttered, _if you think you can do it better, be my guest_.

Five seconds later and with an inaudible click, Lisbon had the door open.

Realizing the whys behind Lisbon’s proficiencies in breaking-and-entering doesn’t take him too long. Post murdering her father, she’d spent years attempting to survive the streets alone in both Chicago and then eventually, Sacramento. He imagined that every sound, movement or thought of failure had kept her in a constant state of anxiety; to the point, where she felt she was always one mistake away from being thrown into prison—somewhere, he knew she ultimately wouldn’t survive.

It’s that reason and that reason alone that he’ll never send her out without backup. He trusts her more than he trusts himself now, but he sleeps better at night knowing she’s safe and sound, as he’s not sure what he would do if something were to happen to her. Cho’s presence by her side quiets his general unease too. The two work well together and beneath that impassive demeanor of his, he knows Cho cares for Lisbon. That’s why Jane has no problems in sending the two to gather intel on Wayne Rigsby, regardless of Cho’s _it’s a waste of our time_ opinion.

What they find, however, isn’t what Jane expects at all.

“Maybe it’s his cousin,” Cho comments after Lisbon’s finished detailing the photographic contents on Rigsby’s digital camera, which she finds on the man’s kitchen counter. Jane’s sitting behind his desk, imagining the man’s home to be quite sparse in monochromatic colors as he probably doesn’t spend much time there. Cho’s comment has him snorting, however, because if the redhead that Lisbon’s described is Rigsby’s cousin, well, he’ll eat off his own left arm.

Which, if Jane’s speculation is right, they’re dealing with a stalker.

“Is there a memory thing-y in the camera hole?” Jane asks. There’s silence and then, Lisbon’s voice, affirming his hunch. Where there’s one memory card, there’s bound to be others. He doesn’t dare warn them that Rigsby’s photographic obsession with the redhead may not be as innocent as the walk in the park photographs, they’ve found.

The line is silent for a few minutes. Lisbon’s searching for another memory card, he’s sure. He only knows he’s right when she returns to him with a surprised gasp.

“So, what was that about being his cousin?” Jane asks, slightly smug.

Cho says nothing.

“He’s a voyeuristic stalker,” Lisbon also concludes, but Jane thinks it might be something more, considering Rigsby’s need for Cho, the drugs he’s slowly been acquiring, and the various photographs of a woman in compromising positions.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Cho deadpans.

Either way, Cho probably doesn’t care. What does it matter, after all, if his drugs were used to kill someone? Or to sedate them? It’s certainly not on him (or any of them, for that matter) to uphold the law as having a conscience in what they do would sign their death certificates.

Jane doesn’t voice his own opinion, but he has a feeling that somewhere in the Rigsby abode, there’s a secret room. Padlocks on the door, more memory cards, and a single dingy mattress. The acquired horse tranquilizers and various other illegal drugs are probably sitting in wait, until the narcotics agent can work up the courage to snag his grand prize.

_Dirty cops_ , he thinks, _are an oxymoron and Rigsby’s living proof of that_. The agent possibly became a cop to do something good, but along the way, he lost himself to the temptations of the job. Jane doubts the man is like them, but he’s as close as he’ll probably ever be—which is good enough for him.

That’s why Jane has no problems with a little quid pro quo; life, after all, operates on a precarious balance.

::::

UC Davis graduate student Grace Van Pelt was pretty, but she most certainly wasn’t worth the trouble in Jane’s honest opinion. Ex-sorority princess and all-around computer genius, the redhead wasn’t all that difficult to abduct from her favorite jogging trail; thanks to a rag soaked in chloroform, a stolen white van in the name of one of her exes and Grace’s consistency, they were able to snag the girl in under thirty minutes.

Even more so, Grace hadn’t been hard to break either. Tossing the silly, little girl into a windowless room with nothing more than the clothes on her back, had made her far more susceptible to Jane’s ability to twist and turn her mind into what Rigsby truly desired: a perfect wife. By the time he’d finished with her, the girl had become a subservient individual.

Hazy from all the mind games, the swap from him to Rigsby had been effortless. Grace had taken to the narcotics agent, much like a vulture took to roadkill, and all of it had been done without the use of illegal substances and violence, much to Jane’s disdain.

However, Rigsby had been exceptionally clear:

Hurt her beyond what’s necessary and he’d make _sure_ they all regretted it.

The agent hadn’t been too specific with the how of his threat, but Cho had advised them all to take him seriously. While Rigsby, according to Cho, seemed relatively harmless; he knew how to be ruthless, as he’d grown up with his father in a biker gang and had watched the man tear lives apart before his very eyes.

That, plus the fact Rigsby was obsessively in love with Van Pelt—and had been, ever since he’d spotted her in line at his favorite coffee joint—made him far more dangerous than the average joe.

With Grace at his feet, kneeling by his side and her eyes to the floor, Rigsby’s smile kept bright as the four discussed business.

“I can personally assure you, Jane,” Rigsby tells him, as his fingers run through Van Pelt’s hair. All five of them are in the dining room, with Lisbon to his right and Cho to his left, Jane’s never felt more invincible. “Lorelei Martins’ team is a joke; Martins might be the only one that’s actually a threat to what you’re doing here though.”

Jane listens, tapping the end of his fountain pen against the table. It’s been a few months since Martins has taken over the case and while she’s no closer to them than Sacramento P.D. was, he still knows they need to proceed with caution. Agent Martins has had an impressive track record between her arrests of Samuel Bosco for arson and Luther Wainwright for sex trafficking; so, Jane gets she’s a heavy hitter in the department. A workaholic that’ll stop at nothing till she catches her man or woman.

Her team, however, not as much.

“After Martins,” Rigsby continues, still stroking Van Pelt’s hair. “You have Craig O’Laughlin. Smart man, if not a bit slow on the uptake in my opinion.”

“Did we ask for your opinion?” Lisbon asks suddenly and Rigsby grimaces, muttering something akin to _uptight bitch_ under his breath. They all ignore it, though. They’ll kill him if he becomes too much of a problem anyway.

“Then, you’ve got Timothy Carter. Carter’s a bit of a loose cannon, as one of you killed his wife late last year.” Jane glances to Lisbon, who nods in slight confirmation. The unfortunate thing about being a serial killer with as many kills as they’ve got, Jane doesn’t exactly have time to keep everything (and everyone) straight. Luckily for him, Lisbon does it all. “He’s more likely to blow his own brains out though, before he finds any of us.”

“Any way to speed that up?” Cho asks, before Jane can.

Rigsby shrugs. “I don’t know the guy well enough to say.”

“Then that’ll be your first assignment,” Jane tells him, also connecting the dots that Cho already has. They get Carter to kill himself, they might be able to fuck with the team a little bit. A win-win for everyone, aside from the Serious Crimes Unit of course. “Get close enough to him and we’ll see if we can nudge him to that point.” The burly brunette nods. “And the rest of the unit? There’s five, aren’t there?”

“Yep, five,” Rigsby confirms. “You’ve got your love-sick fool and the rookie, as I like to call them. Rebecca Anderson, the unit’s whore, will basically stick her tits and ass out for anyone, especially if she feels love might be in the cards for her.”

“You sleep with her?”

Rigsby jerks his head as if he’s been offended by Lisbon’s question. “Gods no! I wouldn’t stick my dick in diseased and crazy.” Jane chuckles, though he doesn’t quite believe the brunette agent. “Dumar Tanner is your rookie, by the way. Dad’s some bigshot detective that nobody’s ever heard of, but apparently, he’s the best thing since sliced bread.”

“Ah,” Cho interrupts. “Detective Orville Tanner.” Jane glances to him. “San Francisco Police Department. He’s a nasty guy with a temper that rivals a bull.”

“Anyway, the guy is a complete moron,” Rigsby finishes, before anyone can discuss Orville Tanner further. “He’s the one, by the way, who was responsible for the Bay Killer getting away last year.”

“Didn’t he also sabotage evidence?” Lisbon asks.

“Yeah, he’s been reprimanded for evidence tampering several times in the past eighteen months.” Rigsby glances down as his watch beeps a few times. “Shit, we’ve got to go.” He stands and motions for Van Pelt to follow him, which she does without a word. “Housewarming party tonight, but we’ll be in touch.”

Jane nods, shaking his hand. “Have fun.” He and Grace leave, after Rigsby’s shaken both Cho and Lisbon’s hands too.

“I’ll be damned,” Lisbon tells them, after the pair are out of sight, “he’s actually useful.”

“Leverage, my dear,” Jane confirms with a smile. “It’s all about the leverage of what we could do to his sweet, little Gracie that keeps him useful to us.”

Cho blinks. His mind obviously elsewhere. “He slept with that whore from the Serious Crimes Unit, didn’t he?”

Jane keeps grinning. “He really did.” Lisbon rolls her eyes and Jane elbows her. “That’s got to amuse you some, Lisbon.”

“I don’t do this for the shop talk, you pig.”

“You sure?”

Jane narrowly dodges Lisbon’s blade by a hair.

“Everyone’s a critic, aren’t they?”

“Not touching that one, Jane,” Cho answers, though he knows the stoic man probably agrees in some form or fashion. 


End file.
